Ahead of Time
by originella
Summary: Eighteen-year-old Bella Swan is feeling stagnate in her life. She has a part-time job at her father's dental practice, a younger brother, an older brother, and two loving parents, but something seems to be missing. When she finds a mysterious handsome man in her father's yearbook, combined with his unwillingness to give her any information, Bella makes it her mission to find him.
1. Bats in the Belfry

Chapter One: Bats in the Belfry

_Crazy._ That's the first adjective that comes to mind when you're attempting to convince other people that time travel is possible. Of course, when I first heard the notion myself, that's the only adjective that was readily available to me. Yet I knew that controversy had the capability of getting involved with every topic out there, especially when you're a teenager, when you want to debate and debunk every little thing. One just had to be on the look-out for it, especially when it came to our assignments and how we could complain and/or potentially get out of them as a whole, if they met all the "ridiculous" criteria.

When we all of us were assigned a decade in our history class to study and do a report on, I knew that there would be a few stragglers who would balk at such a thing. Our teacher would tell us by email who had the best in the class, which I thought was a better alternative than simply saying it during class time. I was given the 1980's, which was a blessing in disguise, as both my parents attended high school during that incredible era in time. All I could think of was getting all the details right; I didn't care if mine was the best in the class—I just wanted to ace the paper. We had two weeks in which to compile research and to write our papers, and then it was time to turn them in. Each paper had to be a minimum of two pages and a maximum of five pages, and at four and a half pages, I thought the length of my piece was perfect.

I turned in my paper on its correct due date with everyone else and managed not to allow it to cross my mind for over a week. After yet another session of history class a week later, I headed to lunch with my two best friends, Jessica and Angela, as usual, and barely glanced at what lay inside my plastic bag. I held onto it tightly as I breezed through the lunch line with them, the formality of keeping them company falling on blind eyes as they each paid for their lunch. We made our way to our customary table by the massive window in the cafeteria, where we all placed the various food containers we had that afternoon center stage.

"When do you think we'll have our results back?" Jessica asked the two of us in a casual manner as she put her fork into a particularly bright green lettuce leaf. "Mr. Volturi has had them for plenty of time…"

"He's got three other history classes," Angela puts in, blowing on a bite of chicken noodle soup, sending a waft of savory-smelling steam in our directions. "Give him some time."

I casually chew a bite of my sandwich before swallowing. "What decades did you two have again?" I ask.

"The fifties, so post-war period," Angela replies, popping a bite of hot soup in her mouth before chewing it and swallowing. "It all seemed pretty calm, but the poor women had to repopulate after the casualties…"

"I had the Roaring Twenties," Jessica replies, an embittered annoyance at the back of her tone as she tossed her blonde hair in a moment of disdain. "My Grandmother Olga went on and on for a week and a half about how privileged us kids are nowadays and how grateful we should be that we're not on rations."

"What are rations?" Angela asks.

Jessica shrugged. "I don't know—something to do with food."

"I hope you put what they really were in your paper," I said quietly, wrapping up what was left of my chicken pesto wrap and returning it to my bag. "Volturi will downgrade you if your definition isn't correct, or sloppily written…"

"Do you know what rations are?" Angela asks.

I pick up my bottle of water and sip it slowly; I return the cap to its proper place and run my fingers along the delicate ridges. "Yeah," I said quietly.

Jessica drums her perfectly manicured fingers upon the surface of the commonly sticky lunch table, fixing me with a cold, glacier-like look. "If you did, where were you when I was writing my report?"

I gritted my teeth, unscrewing the cap again. "I was writing _my_ report," I reply patiently, sipping my bottle of water. "I mean, it's a midterm, remember? If we fail a midterm, we'd have to make up all the points somehow. Consider that assignment compared to five other class workloads and the finishing touches on a senior project—it's a lot to take in."

Jessica sighed, taking another couple bites of salad, its leaves barely soaked with her favorite fat-free vinaigrette dressing. "I know you're right, I'm sorry. My parents have been fighting a lot recently and I think they may end up getting a divorce. I shouldn't be taking it out on you, I know that."

Angela sighed as well. "Well, at least you don't have a single mother who is your principal breathing down your neck all the time," she muttered. "Well, at least now that I'm eighteen and can potentially dig up some information on my father."

"And what about prom?" Jessica asks, Angela's curiosity about her biological father being swept under the rug, as always. "We have to worry about that. The dress and the shoes and a limo…so much to consider."

"And a date for Bella," Angela says, nodding in my direction.

Immediately, I choke on a sip of water and shake my head, folding up what is left of my lunch in an effort to distract myself. I don't even bother eating my rice krispy treat, as I still have memories of each krispy rice piece getting stuck in my braces, which I'd just gotten out about six weeks ago. "No, thank you—no date for me."

"We can't go to the prom with our guys and leave you to dance alone on the sidelines," Jessica says, her trademark whine hidden in the back of her statement.

"I won't be dancing alone," I reply hotly.

"Because you're going to ask someone?" Angela asks.

"Let's not be too hasty—maybe somebody asked her," Jessica puts in.

I shake my head at the both of them, becoming entirely annoyed with this very trivial line of conversation. "No, nobody asked me."

Angela's dark brows knitted together at my statement. "Well, if you're not dancing alone, and nobody asked you to prom… I mean, what are you going to do there, Bella? Stand by the wall all night?" she demanded.

I roll my eyes, tempted to smack the table. "No, neither," I say, rolling my shoulders. "I wasn't asked, and I won't be asking anyone."

"Bella—" Jessica begins.

"I won't be standing by the wall, or the punch bowl, or the snack table—"

Angela averted her eyes. "Sorry…"

"I won't be doing any of that because I'm not going."

"Not going?!" cried Jessica. "Why?!"

"Well, for one thing, it'd be a waste of money because even trying to look pretty much a foreign thing to me." I shudder at the whole institution of it. "Besides, I have far too much work to do as it is. I'm doing six class workloads, plus there's my work at Dad's practice five times a week after school for three hours, my senior project finalization, and then I have my book list and essay to write before starting at the University of Washington in September." I run a hand through my long, brown hair then, for it seemed as if none of them truly understood what I was getting at—that, quite soon, we would be onto bigger and better things, and none of this objectively mattered. "I don't have time to waste money and to dance around looking like a complete idiot for the mandatory four hours before being potentially felt up in some seedy motel room. Sorry."

Jessica's expression is perturbed at my run-on statement, her silver eyes wide. "You're not actually suggesting that—"

"No, I'm not suggesting that you or Angela or Mike or Ben will look like complete idiots at prom," I reply, knowing I have to keep my tone patient. "You're good couples and they treat you right. Plus, I'm friends with them both, so it doesn't make it weird. You two go and have a fun time while I surround myself with work."

"You sure?" Angela asks.

I nod. "Positive," I reply.

. . .

I hop in my silver Prius when school lets out, letting out a customary honk to my younger brother, Jasper, who is a sophomore and on his motorcycle. Jasper and I each work as part-time receptionists/assistants at our parents' dental practice, Swan's Smiles's, located in Downtown Forks. It is in a grand old building made from expensive bricks and, if one were to stand in the suite of offices on the top floor, you could see Lake Crescent in La Push.

The practice itself is open Monday thru Friday, except holidays, from nine a.m. until six p.m., except on the eve of a holiday, where we would close our doors at three-thirty sharp. Jasper's and my parents started the practice after graduating from the School of Medicine, the medical division of the University of Washington. They'd met their eighth-grade year, at Forks Junior High School, and had become fast friends immediately thereafter. The friendship had grown into an attraction by high school, and by the time their junior year rolled around, they were an established and exclusive couple. The pair of them were married the summer after their graduation, before they attended the university medical school, and were a part of the graduating class of 1984. After a small loan from our paternal grandparents, the practice was born and soon became one of the best businesses in town.

I was born in January of 1996, and it seemed that I was everything my parents had wanted in their lives. Initially believing that children were out of the question for them—as they had waited nearly a solid decade after their marriage to conceive me—the two of them thought that it would never happen. But happen it did, and my younger brother Jasper debuted on the scene on the first day of November, in 1997.

After that, they decided that they were through with having children, yet they adopted our older brother, Emmett, from Los Angeles after meeting him during a family vacation. Emmett was being educated at School of Medicine as well, and was just as good a student as our father had been during his college days. The plan was for Emmett to take over the practice upon graduation, and to marry his fiancée, Rosalie Hale, a local girl whose father was a partner in the big law firm in town, where Rosalie would eventually take over as well.

I left the school parking lot and made my way down the quiet side streets before turning on the road outside school, Spartan Avenue, and turned onto South Forks Avenue. I passed Mocha Motion, a coffee shop hangout, a hardware store, and the art center, sports stores, and other things that tourists seemed to like to frequent whenever they found themselves in town, which was virtually never, due to our abundance of rain, which seemed to turn people off. I made a left on Campbell Street and Ash Avenue, where my parents' dental practice was located in the same prime location it had been when it was initially opened, a generous parking lot included.

I parked in my designated parking place before leaning forward and popping open my glove compartment, slipping on my nametag lanyard which also worked as a key card for the employee entrance. I hesitated for a moment, running my hands over the steering wheel, and remembering what my father had told me about hard work, and how far it could ultimately take you. I fixed myself a look in the mirror, my chocolate brown eyes staring right back to me, and shook my head at my reflection, slamming the mirror shut.

I put my bag on over my shoulder, knowing that I could easily get some schoolwork done during my break. I got out of the car, locking it automatically behind me and making my way across the parking lot. The sun beat down on me, which was a rarity for these parts, and I managed to methodically tip my sunglasses downwards to shield my eyes for the three-yard walk from my car towards the employee entrance, located around the back of the building. I scanned my key card and let myself in, taking down my sunglasses for the security cameras and going to my station, behind the appealing cherry wood desk in the reception area. I waved to Senna, who I would be relieving of duty, and she smiled gratefully.

"Right on time," she said, signing out of her employee account. "I'll tell ya, honey, these patients just have the most interesting stories…"

"Oh, really?" I ask, setting my things down on the opposite side of the desk and logging in to the second computer. "How's that?"

"A man came in before noon for a root canal—pretty routine, if I do say so myself," Senna replies, folding her hands on her ample belly and shaking her head. "Gave his name, and mercifully, he had an appointment."

"Really? He did? That's a relief," I say, peeking over my shoulder at her. "Did he say what caused the injury to his mouth?"

"Skiing accident, but I thought otherwise… Although I suspect your father thought so too and worked him in," says Senna with a smile.

"He's always doing that," I say with a chuckle at the back of my voice as I pull up the appointment calendar for the day. "Let's see, Thursday," I mutter to myself as I manage to locate the right day. "Here we are… Looks like Bruce Greenstein should be arriving for his three-thirty anytime now…"

"Oh, yeah, yeah, I remember him," Senna says, straightening her natural weave as she makes sure her computer has logged out appropriately. "He's the new owner of our darling little sports emporium, it seems…"

"Old man Stephenson was finally bought out?" I ask casually, scanning the calendar for more appointments that day.

"Apparently," Senna replies as the main door opens. "Jasper Charles Swan!"

My brother grins sheepishly as I look up at him and automatically purse my lips in a moment of impatience, and I already know what he's about to say. "I'm really sorry about this, Senna," he says, automatically locking his motorcycle in his own spot in the parking lot. "Forgot my ID badge behind the counter again. Toss it to me so I can go in the right way? Please?"

"Only because your father is swamped that he can't be bothered," Senna groans as she gathers her things, tossing Jasper his ID badge. "You have a good day, sugar," she says to me, flashing her perfect smile.

"He'll see it on the security camera footage, you know," I mutter, grinning back at Senna as I motion for Jasper to move out of the way as a paying customer approaches the desk from the parking lot. "Good afternoon, and welcome to Swan's Smiles's," I say as Jasper rolls his eyes when he thinks I'm preoccupied and slips out the main door. "And do you have an appointment with us today, sir?" I notice from the corner of my eye that Jasper has gone completely, and I know full well that Senna has met him at the employee entrance.

"Bruce Greenstein," he says, putting out a hand.

"Bella Swan, nice to meet you," I say, shaking it.

"Dentist's daughter?" he guesses.

"Right you are," I say, checking him in. "All right, good to go… A hygienist should be with you in the next five to ten minutes. If you would like, please partake in a complimentary stick of gum, or a glass of water—lemon wedge optional, but not required. You can also use the bathroom, or feel free to brush your teeth with a courtesy toothbrush, opposite from the bathroom," I tell him with a smile.

"Thanks very much," Mr. Greenstein says. He pops a stick of winter green gum into his mouth and heads for the bathroom. He returns in about three minutes and picks up a _Men's Health Magazine_ with a rugged-looking Russell Crowe on the cover. As he flips through it, an amused smile on his face, there is a silence until Jasper finally makes his appearance known, and slips beside me and onto the other computer.

"That's the new Sport's Emporium owner?" he asks casually, kicking his bag underneath the desk and logging in to his employee account. "He looks pretty normal—an improvement from old man Stephenson."

"Shh!" I hiss at him, annoyed that he would say something so within earshot, especially given that this Greenstein guy was supposedly new in town. "Dad needs all the new customers he can get—you know that. I mean, sure, we're the only dental practice in town, but still. We don't want any kind of competition."

"Sorry, sorry," Jasper mutters, logging in to his account completely and managing to pull up the appointment calendar page. "I get it, really, Bella. Mom and Dad both make good livings, which is why we've got a nice house, and Emmett's on full-scholarship with a car, and you have a car, and I've got…"

"Your bike?" I ask, giving him a sideways grin, and shake my head at him. "Your sweet baby, Motorcycle-Bike?"

"Hey!" Jasper says in mock-anger, and crosses his arms to really sell the show. "That's _Mister_ Motorcycle-Bike!"

I roll my eyes, the phrase _boys and their toys_ filling my mind as I scanned through further appointments that afternoon on the appointment file on the computer. "That bike is seriously your baby…everyone in town knows that. What does Maria make out of all this?"

"Maria couldn't handle it," Jasper says quietly.

"How's that?" I ask, watching as one of the hygienists, Heidi, steps forward and calls Bruce Greenstein into the back for his appointment.

"We broke up last week," Jasper says as Bruce Greenstein and Pauline file past the receptionist desk in an orderly fashion. "We broke up at the big bonfire—which you missed because you're clearly antisocial."

"Yeah, that's why," I mutter, scoffing as I continue looking through appointments, and find that Jessica's younger brothers—Jasper's best friend, Eric, as well as the youngest in the Stanley family, ten-year-old Seth—are due for their six-month cleaning. "Seniors have a much larger workload, mister. Trust me—when you get there, you'll know."

"Eric and I want to buy the local auto body shop," Jasper tells me. "I've told everyone this plenty of times."

I look over at Jasper and sigh; we'd been told by the family early on that although Emmett was going to inherit the practice, if we got the necessary education, we would be able to have a part of the practice ourselves. Although I was still undecided about everything in life—other than graduating and my acceptance into the University of Washington—I still knew that a college degree was necessary. "I'm not saying you wouldn't make good money at that job," I reply, forcing my voice to remain gentle so as I wouldn't cause Jasper any form of teenage angst—he literally wouldn't be able to handle it. "You'd make great money—especially if you and Eric were a success—but you should really go to college…"

"I take shop at school; I volunteer there whenever I'm not scheduled here," Jasper snaps back at me as the main door opens again. "Let me be me—I never liked the whole book thing… Hello, welcome to Swan's Smiles," he says with a rather effervescent air to the patients. "How may I help you?"

"Claudia Webster, checking in for my daughter, Amanda," says the mother, who appears to be in her thirties, along with her daughter, who looks as if she's in elementary school.

"Of course," Jasper replies, pulling up the appointment calendar on his computer screen and checking to see if the information is all correct. "And it's just the cleaning today for Amanda, Mrs. Webster?" he asks.

"Yes, that's right," she replies.

"Very good," Jasper says, flashing a smile to Amanda before filling out that she had arrived over ten minutes before her appointment. "Just through that small door there is the kids' area—full of books. I think the film playing in there today is _Frozen_ if you're interested."

Amanda brightens at that, dropping her mother's hand and immediately making a dash for the children's area.

Mrs. Webster looks visibly relieved that her daughter is occupied; she remains at the desk for a moment longer before Jasper finishes with her, before turning around and getting onto her electronic appointment calendar. Claudia Webster had an air of business about her, and I guessed she worked at Forks C.P.A.'s, based on the fact that authority seemed to cling to her like a warm blanket. I'd seen Amanda Webster coming into the practice before; hyperactive to the core, I assumed that her mother worked long hours, and I wondered if her mother had hired a nanny or a governess for her.

We had several more customers flit in and out of the practice that afternoon, and when five-thirty rolled around, Dad came out from his office and told us that we should do a final check of the appointment logs. Jasper and I did so, and we neither of us saw any further appointments in the book; with the technicians sent home, Mom making sure all the instruments were clean, and Dad going through the books and the security footage, it was almost time to get home.

Relief flooded through me; it hadn't been too terribly busy that afternoon, so I'd managed to finish my homework during the lull of the work day and in some of my mandatory employee breaks. Fifteen minutes later, Jasper and I were told to shut off the computers and lock the main door, whereupon we scanned our badges and left the building, leaving Mom and Dad to lock up the back and finish with everything else. We had a cleaning crew come three times a week, so there wasn't much to do—they came twice during the business week for a preliminary clean, and once during the weekend for a deep clean.

_You never did like the smell of lemon_, I admonish myself as I wave Jasper off in the semi-darkness of the parking lot. I got into my car and faintly heard his motorcycle fire up from inside the enclosed walls. I leaned back against my seat, savoring the quiet around me, and saw my mother and father locking up the employee entrance of the practice from behind me. I saw my mother turn around to listen to something my father was saying, and then throwing back her head in a moment of humor. Shaking my head, I turned the key in the ignition, navigating my way from the parking space and honking my horn at them, before waving briefly and taking the back way out of the parking lot. I drove down Calawah Way, and make my way up the hill and towards Merchants Road, where many semi-affluent members of town live.

Our house is a beautiful Colonial with old-fashioned brickwork and cream-colored pillars on either side of the trio of stone steps, which lead all the way up to the ordinary rectangular-shaped front door. On either side of the house, other than the bay windows on the second floor, are two garages—three in the standard size, plus a larger one, where my parents kept their two cars. My father had a sleek black Cadillac, while my mother owned a sophisticated-looking red BMW, a present from my father at Christmas three years ago.

Emmett, Jasper, and I each have one of the smaller garages to ourselves; although Jasper doesn't have a car, he does have our parents' permission to use his space to fix up his friends' cars for a pretty decent profit. His room is literally a shrine to the car itself—not just one car, but cars in general; he would die if anything happened to his hands or to his brain; hands to complete the task, brains to remember how it's done, or to come up with a more efficient way to complete said task in a cheaper or potentially life-altering manner.

Once I've reached the top of the hill, I turn right and keep going until the numbers on the houses reach four. I continue on towards the cul-de-sac, where our house is in the dead back center. I go around the roundabout and head up the driveway, and pop open my garage automatically in one swift movement. I let out a groan as it opens, slamming my head down onto my steering wheel as the light flickers on when I see the white Porsche convertible parked dead center in what has always been known as my garage.

"Dammit Rosalie!" I shout, shutting off my car, effectively blocking her in, and smirk ever so slightly at minorly inconveniencing her as well. I make a grab for my backpack, hopping out of the vehicle and making my way up the rest of the driveway, stomping as I go. I walk in through _my_ garage and troop through the side entrance which leads to the basement stairs and up to the main floor. "Hey!" I shout as I head upstairs. "Anyone home?"

"In here!" Emmett calls from the kitchen, where I smell the mouth-watering smell of steaks cooking on the back barbeque, and I realize that me not eating my entire lunch was a bad way to go—I am officially hangry. "Hey, little sis," he says as I make it up the rest of the stairs, pulling me into a hug. "How was your day? And work? Only a few more months to go now and then my baby sister is officially an all-grown-up high school graduate—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah—cut the big brother chit-chat. I'm _really_ not in the mood to hear any of it right now," I say in a firm tone, pulling myself out of his arms and scanning the gourmet kitchen for Rosalie and coming up dry, the irritation on an empty stomach leaving an altogether bad taste in my mouth. "Tell me—where's your fiancée?"

Emmett sighs, towering over me, running a hand through his brown hair, which is several shades darker than mine. "In the living room," he replies.

"Good," I say, throwing my backpack on one of the seats with a mighty slam at the bar and stomping in there. "Rosalie," I say, and find my mouth flapping open when I see that not only is she painting her nails _on_ the high-priced couch, but our bulldog, Churchill, is sleeping next to her (drooling, of course). To add insult to injury, Rosalie has turned on our living room flat screen to _Keeping Up with the Kardashians_.

Rosalie turns around then, her perfect blonde hair like the plume of an angel's halo as she does so, her blue eyes flashing in fiery ambivalence. "Bella, darling—my soon-to-be little sister!" she crows like some kind of sadistic lark, hell-bent on catching its prey, before getting to her perfect size-five feet and swiftly capping her pristine dark green Christian Louboutin nail polish that is worth what I make in three hours while working for my dad. "Darling, darling, darling!" Rosalie gushes at me like she's some old Hollywood starlet, or a modern hairdresser, as she struts towards me in her platform heels—inexplicably never tripping and falling—and throwing her arms around me. "I can't believe that exactly one week after your graduation, I am going to be your sister!"

I nod, nearly choking on her Chanel perfume, thankful that I am able to get her vice-like grip of her likely still-wet nails off from around my neck and just managing to plaster on a smile as she looks down at me. "Yeah, um, sure," I say, stepping back.

"Oh, it's just been so hard coming up with everything… Oh!" she says, her voice rising half an octave as a thought comes to her—surprisingly, she had plenty, it was comprehending them that proved to be the difficult part. "I know I told everyone _months_ ago that Alice was going to be my maid of honor—she is my sister, after all. But I was hoping you'd be a bridesmaid? Will you, Bella? You will, won't you? Please say you will?" she asks.

"What about your cousin, Tessa?" I ask her.

Rosalie waves it away, air-drying her nails, effectively killing two birds with one stone. "Had a falling out."

"How?" I ask. "You two are so close…"

Rosalie rolls her eyes, turning back towards the T.V. as Kim or Khloe or Kanye or somebody says something seemingly important to whoever. "Tessa says that she needs to be home right now because she and Will—her husband—have to go to the hospital…"

"Is everything okay?" I ask, ignoring the T.V.

"Something called a D&C," Rosalie says, waving it off before deciding to add another coat of nail polish to her nails. "The recovery period is said to be a bitch…"

I take a moment to shake my head at her callousness and ignorance before taking a small step towards her. "Listen, Rosalie… You parked in my garage again…"

Rosalie automatically reaches into her purse with her free hand and tosses her keys behind her, which inexplicably end up in my hand, nearly stabbing my palm in the process. "I trust you, Bella," she said without looking at me. "You're probably parked behind me, right?"

I nod. "Yeah…"

"Good. Pull your car out to the street and then move my car," Rosalie says rather plaintively, all the while migrating her vision from the reality show and painting her nails—which I hoped she would get yelled at for. "Emmett and I are just staying for dinner and dessert and then he has to get back to the dorms and I have to get home."

I nod. "All right, then," I reply, walking back into the kitchen to get my keys before heading outside to do Rosalie's dirty work. As I head back towards the kitchen, I roll my eyes at Emmett, who mouths, "Be nice". Whatever he saw in Rosalie I seriously had no idea, I thought to myself as I made my way back down the stairs and into the side door, leading ultimately to my garage and seriously considering keying Rosalie's sleek carriage, but ultimately deciding it was better if I didn't. Emmett and Rosalie's chemistry seemed to be off the charts, of course—it had to be considering she got that six-carat diamond—but she was a total airhead.

I mean, we all knew that the reason she even got into the law school division of University of Washington was because her father had to have made a call, I reasoned with myself as I unlocked my car and hopped inside. I drove into reverse and out onto the street, my headlights illuminating the street in front of me as I perfectly parked my car temporarily onto the street. Getting out, I walked back up the driveway and towards Rosalie's car—which she named White Shadow because she fancied herself as some deep individual full of intellectualism—and was more than a little tempted to ram it somewhere. However, I merely pulled it out of my garage and down the driveway, before putting my car back where it belonged.

"Maybe it'd be nice if Rosalie were to simply fall asleep," I muttered to myself as I shut the garage behind me. "Because then the sweepers could justifiably and legally come and haul off poor, poor White Shadow away…" I laughed maniacally to myself as I made my way back upstairs, my nose following the completely intoxicating and overwhelmingly good smell of steaks cooking.


	2. In the Nick of Time

Chapter Two: In the Nick of Time

History was third period and I found I wasn't filled with any form of trepidation the following Monday, especially after the weekend email from Mr. Volturi, which informed us that he'd graded our essays over the weekend. I sat with Jessica and Angela in the middle row of the classroom, going over my notes for our physics quiz in the following hour, in the interim, which I found strangely calming, despite the notion that science was my worst subject. Jessica was telling Angela about the latest argument in the Stanley Family Drama, and, having had enough of family drama for a lifetime, I managed to tune it out. I just had to remember what inertia meant, or my B grade in the class would be done for…

"Good morning, class," Mr. Volturi said, standing at the front of the class and looking us all over as the bell concluded ringing. "I hope you had a wonderful weekend, but now is not the time to discuss that." He smiled at us all, his black eyes taking us all in before his hands and long, tapered fingers contacted with the massive stack of papers on his front desk. "My weekend was filled with grading all of your innovative decade essays. Like I said before, the lucky person who wrote the best paper would receive a surprise," he went on, and everyone's interest was just piqued at that notion. "That surprise is your entire essay printed in the _Forks Forum _Sunday edition, on the front page of the Arts & Life section—online as well," he says, and a few more people sit up. "Now, I've made my decision and the person with the paper who will be printed this Sunday in the _Forks Forum _is Miss Isabella Swan."

I found myself not overtly listening to Mr. Volturi; yeah, I'd put my physics quiz notes away, but hardly anybody called me Isabella, with the exception of both sets of grandparents, school administrators, or my parents if I was in trouble. When Mr. Volturi said my name, however, each student in the class turned towards me with their eyebrows raised, and I knew it was me. I locked eyes with Mr. Volturi, who smiled, and told me that I had done well; he returned the paper to me, an A+ grade on the front page. A sticky note was just below the grade, which said he would need the copy back at the end of the day to make copies for the _Forks Forum_, and for me to meet him outside the teacher's lounge to return it when school ended.

I went through with lunch, physics, my literature class, and calculus before I said goodbye to Jessica and Angela—who had cheerleading and photography for the school's newspaper after school respectively. I'd already texted my dad at lunch, telling him I'd be a few minutes late for my shift at the practice as I had to take care of something regarding my essay, and he said that he had talked it over with Senna and Senna explained that her sister would be picking up her kids that day anyway.

What was ten minutes, really, in the grand scheme of things? That's what everyone seemed to say to me that day.

I met Mr. Volturi at the entrance of the teacher's lounge as planned and, since it was after hours, invited me in. I only accepted because I remembered how I'd seen the photograph of Volturi and a woman who could be a Spanish or Greek model, posed just suggestively enough before someone from the school board made a complaint, on his desk. Satisfied, I trooped into the teacher's lounge after him, responding amicably enough to his questions about my studies, my acceptance into the University of Washington, and what area of further education I was interested in for a potential career.

I continued making conversation as we proceeded to complete the copying process for the next few minutes. Mr. Volturi explained that we needed a hundred copies of my essay, as it was much easier to do a copying job at school, rather than at the newspaper headquarters, for everyone copied there. I thought nothing of it and just did my best to make sure that Mr. Volturi kept all the paperwork in the correct order that I'd written them in. Other than the organizing and answering the occasional question he had for me, the only sounds of merit came from the copy machine; that is, of course, until Mr. Volturi's phone rang.

Mr. Volturi removed the phone from his pocket and sighed; I just managed to catch a picture of who I assumed was his wife on the screen. "I'm so sorry, Bella—I'm going to have to take this, it's important."

I nodded. "No problem," I reply.

"Think you can do some copying while I'm taking it outside?"

I bite my lip. "What if someone comes in…?"

Mr. Volturi smiled. "Don't worry about that," he says, walking towards the door of the teacher's lounge. "Tell them you're doing it for me—it won't matter," he assures me, stepping outside and putting the phone to his ear.

The door swung shut behind him, and its squeak seemed to linger in the air very briefly as I turned back to the copy machine. I'd kept my backpack on and since it wasn't very heavy, and I decided it would be better if it remained on my back. I reached out to complete another copying process when suddenly I over thought it and accidentally swung some papers to the ground—it was a typical piece of behavior, really.

Groaning in a moment of pure and unadulterated exasperation, I bent to retrieve the papers and then returned them to the plastic screen on the copier. I straighten them out so as they will come out right when they're printed, yet one of the papers towards the back does not seem to want to cooperate in the slightest. A bit of hair escapes from my ponytail and I lazily blow it upwards out of my eyes with my hot breath as I lean forward to complete the process of straightening the papers—I'm sure the _Forks Forum _demanded professionalism.

Just as I do so, I feel my abdomen making direct contact with the circular green 'Start' button as I moved to make the papers lie right. There is a flash of light on the surface then, momentarily blinding me, and suddenly I am flying—literally flying—through an endless void. I find I am screaming as I do so, and then I am dipping at full-force towards the earth again. My screams shatter through the air as I literally fall from the sky, yet bounce off the ground as if I'm one of those fifty-cent balls you can by in some corner store vending machine. I've landed rather unceremoniously upon my face and as I tentatively raise it up, wondering if I've broken anything of importance, I see that many people are staring at me, open-mouthed.

Picking up my head, I see a tree directly behind me, and I know then that these unsuspecting individuals assume that I've fallen from its branches. Deciding to go with it, I manage to get to my knees before my head spins out of control and I have to cover my eyes to obliterate the sun completely, which is certainly not helping matters at all. _Ugh, my head, my head_, my mind groans, desperately seeking the darkness that my hands can offer.

"This is not my day…" I muttered into my hands.

"Are you all right?"

The voice shatters my sense of darkness and security, yet I know that it would be unbelievably rude if I didn't answer whoever was speaking to me. Carefully, I raise my eyes towards the voice, taking in the young man before me; six-foot-two, bronze hair, eyes the color that Crayola would call jade green every inch an attractive specimen of the opposite sex… I soon found my mouth was dry and I was staring at this individual before me with the kind of dead-eyed, obsessive look that people gave to their favorite rock star or something.

"Fine," I manage to get out. "Fine. T-thank you," I stammer.

The guy searches my face, almost as if he's questioning something—he couldn't have been more than eighteen-years-old. "You look familiar to me… But that's impossible, I mean, it's not like you and I have…" He says quietly, stopping mid-thought, and puts out a hand to help me up—dammit, even his hands are gorgeous specimens… "We haven't met, have we?"

_Creepy_, my mind initially thinks—I'd never seen this guy in my entire life. I lower my eyes completely to his extended hand, however, and he pulls me promptly to my feet, and I force myself not to permit a gasp to escape from my throat. I very nearly fall, too, but the guy gets a good enough grip upon me to prevent that from happening. "Th-thanks," I manage to get out and immediately move an appropriate distance away from him.

"Who are you, anyway?" he asks.

"Bella," I reply, cursing myself for allowing my voice to shake even a little, and wondering if I should've come up with a fake identity. "I'm Bella Swan."

"Funny," the guy replies. "That's my best friend's last name."

I blink—did he know Emmett or Jasper? "Really?" I ask, just making conversation as I move to follow him. "Who's your best friend?"

"Charles Swan," he replies, "but everyone calls him Charlie."

I stop dead in my tracks. "Charlie Swan is your best friend?!" I asked, trying to keep my voice from shouting.

"Of course, for as long as I can remember," the guy continues. "We've only known each other since we were kids—we met in… Oh, I'd say back in '71 when we started kindergarten. Time is such a mysterious thing," he muses aloud. Then, he turns to me, an embarrassed smile on his face. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't introduce myself."

I force a smile. "No, you didn't."

"Edward Cullen," he replies, reaching out his hand and shaking mine.

"Nice to meet you," I say, unable to place the name as I look past him. "This is the high school, then, huh?" I ask, taking in how clean the surrounding area looks.

"Yeah, that's Forks High School," he replies. "Come on—I assume you're new in town. You obviously need an escort."

"Thank you, Edward," I reply, feeling relieved that I don't stammer my reply as I move to follow him again.

"Great," Edward replies, smiling at me and continuing to walk closer and closer to the side entrance of the high school. We head inside, and he nods towards two girls talking to each other beside a radiator, despite the fact that it is at least eighty degrees outside. "That's Katie Marshall and Mary Weber—they've been best friends since kindergarten because they were always put next to each other in class."

I must force myself to keep my mouth from dropping at the notion that Jessica and Angela's mothers were once best friends. While Mary is a total knockout—not something from what I would've expected Principal Weber to look like under any circumstances whatsoever—Katie looks completely bookish and shy, just responding in a monotone to Mary's lecture. Katie's hair is the same brown color as Angela's and flows down her back, while Mary's hair is blonde and tied back in a messy ponytail.

"Makes sense," I put in as a tall drink of water turns the corner and walks up to Katie and Mary and raise my eyebrows. "Who's that over there?" I ask Edward.

"That's Lawrence Stanley, quarterback of the football team," Edward replies. "He's actually not too bad a guy—the jock stereotype has nothing on him."

_Damn—Jessica's dad was fine_! I think to myself and immediately shake my head, banishing the thought from my mind. "I'll bet money that he's dating Mary," I reply.

Edward laughs then, stifling the beautiful sound with his hand in one swift motion as he tries to contain himself. "You'd lose that bet," he replies, and I watch as Lawrence approaches Katie and kisses her, leaving Mary to look away uncomfortably, her cheeks heating in a moment that I can sense is resentment. "I mean, you're new here so you don't know, but Katie and Lawrence have been together since junior high."

"Oh," I say, shock radiating through me as Lawrence listens to something that Katie is saying and, when he smiles, I see Angela etched into his face. _Oh, my_, I think to myself. _Secrets were just as popular now as they were then_…

"And here come the resident heartthrobs," Edward says.

"Lawrence and Katie don't take that title?" I ask, following Edward's gaze and turn to see my parents walking hand in hand down the hallway. "Oh, god…"

"You know them?" Edward asks me, before stepping towards them and greeting them both with high-spirited enthusiasm. "Charlie! Ren! How's it going?" he asks.

I've never heard my mother called 'Ren' in her entire life, and I continued to rack my brain as to who this Edward person was. Did he and my father have a terrible falling out? Why was he never mentioned at home…?

"Charlie, you'll never guess what happened outside just now," Edward is saying, pulling me back to the 1980's, where I was stuck. "I was just walking by when this person just plummets from the tree outside—pretty crazy, huh?" he asks.

I lock eyes with my mother, channeling the words, _Help me_, into my face, and she seems equally perturbed at, well, everything really…

"What's your name?" she asks me.

"Bella," I reply.

"Bella _Swan_," Edward says, and he and Charlie—my father—share a laugh. "I was trying to figure out if you had a cousin or something…"

"None with that name," he replies.

Renee steps forward and takes me by the arm. "We're going to the bathroom," she says, and pulls me with her down the hall towards the ladies' room. We step inside together, the door swinging shut behind us and she peeks momentarily underneath the stalls before locking the door behind us with shaking hands. "Okay, what is going on here?!" she demands, her voice rising, as mine did, whenever I was riled up.

"What?" I ask her.

"Why do you have _my boyfriend's_ last name, and how come I've never heard of you?!" she cries out, looking concerned. "And why do you look like him?!"

I shake my head. "You don't want to know…"

"Believe me, I do," she says firmly.

I sigh. "Open your eyes!" I shout back at her. "I look like you, too!"

Not expecting that reply, Renee goes momentarily silent before yanking me towards the mirror and catching a glimpse of our reflections next to each other. "Oh, my god," she whispers, her eyes flying back to mine.

Shaking my head again, I bend down to watch my hands. "Really bad dream I'm having here," I find myself muttering like a crazy person on a street corner. I push the button on top of the faucet and feel relief at the cool water contacting my hands. No sooner has the water touched my hands then am I flying through time and space and I'm suddenly in the girl's bathroom again…

…except the layout is present-day. I want to scream but instead I grab a paper towel and take out my phone—it is nearly four p.m. _No_! I shout to myself as I run out of there and down the hall and towards the parking lot. I unlock my car and drive across town to the office, where I know Senna will have my head for being late and putting everything behind schedule. I turn off my car and slip my lanyard around my neck before running through the parking lot and scanning my I.D. and making my way through the employees-only area. I am relieved to see that Senna has already left for the day and Jasper is working the desk solo, but thankfully there aren't a lot of clients to deal with that day.

"Where's Mom?" I ask him, shakily.

"Inventory," he replies. "But where have you been—?"

"Later. Cover for me," I say, running off before he can refuse. I walk to the back of the office, feeling relieved when I see that Dad's office door is closed, and walk to the file room itself, swinging open the door. "Mom?" I call out.

"Back here, honey," she calls back.

I shut the door behind me and make my way back towards where our cleaning supplies are kept, and see my mother taking note of them. I look her up and down, and find it is weird having seen her as an eighteen-year-old so recently… "Hi there, Mom," I say.

"Hi, baby," she says, not looking up and taking down some notes on her iPad. "Is there something you need?"

I bite my lip and shake my head. "Well, you know how you and dad gave me your yearbooks to do my essay, but I said I didn't need them…"

She nods. "Yeah, of course."

"Well, my essay won that contest and it's going to be in the Sunday newspaper," I say quietly, not wanting to sound boastful.

My mother smiles, still not looking up. "Honey, that's wonderful," she replies. "I will tell your father we have to celebrate this weekend."

"Well, would you mind if I looked at the yearbooks?" I asked.

She smiles at me then, seemingly pleased that I am taking an interest in her past. "No, of course not," she says, looking up and kissing me on the cheek in a moment of tenderness. "They should be in the study at home. Help yourself to whatever you need."

"Can I leave early?" I ask. "I have to make sure the essay is perfect, and I have to do some work on my senior project…"

"Didn't you just get here, sweetheart?" she asks, taking note of my backpack and frantic expression, looking concerned. "Honey, is something wrong?"

"Of course not," I lie. "I just have a lot to do, you know. I know I already got in to the University of Washington, but I want my grades to be perfect…"

She nods. "All right, honey, I suppose it's all right—I'll deal with your father," she says, turning around and scanning her employee I.D. on the back exit. "Go out through here," she says. "It'll work out, I promise."

"Thanks, Mom!" I cry out, moving past her and back into the parking lot.

I promptly get into my car and head home, my job as a receptionist officially on the back burner as I make my way up the hill. I pull into the driveway and into my garage, and head directly upstairs, greeting Churchill briefly and going immediately into the study, where the yearbooks are on one of the shelves waiting for me. Two copies of each, they both have gold lettering, the spines reading FORKS HIGH SCHOOL and the years 1980—1984. I promptly open the 1984 yearbook and flip to the senior section, going through the names alphabetically. I bypass my father, listed as Charles Swan, and my mother, listed as Renee Higginbotham. I double back to the 'C' section, and there is Edward Cullen, frozen in time, in black and white.

I flip back to the index, where I find his name again, and manage to find all the other pages he is supposedly on. I find out that Edward was part of the debate team, the chess club, the poet laureates, the literature squad, the drama club, the humanities division, and the anthropology crew, to name a few. He even won a senior award—Best Friends—and I smiled to see him pictured with my father, the candid, black and white photo snapped just as the two of them were in mid-laugh about something, likely an inside joke, between the two.

I took out my phone then, going onto Facebook and finding my father's profile. I am shocked to see that he is not listed among his friends, nor does anyone with the correct credentials come up in the search results. I don't see any further information about him in the yearbooks either, and even Google doesn't offer up anything about him. Annoyed, I head to my room, and even consider putting his name into the newspaper search engine, but don't get that far. Exhausted from my ordeal, I curl up in a fetal position and fall asleep.

. . .

I am woken up by the slam of a door—the front door—and the angry words, "Isabella Marie Swan!" filling my ears. I immediately feel my blood run cold as I get to my feet—straightening my top and pulling up my jeans as I go—and leave my bedroom. I find my black Converse sneakers are silent on the stylish runner carpet that goes up and down each hallway, as well as down the stairs towards the main floor of the house, and just into the kitchen, where it stops to make way for the attractive brown tile my mother picked out.

"Yeah, Dad?" I ask him. I am now standing just outside his study, not wanting to invade the personal space of the beast.

My father sighs, crossing the room immediately and pulling me into his arms. "I was so worried about you!"

I struggle to escape from the embrace. "Mom said she was going to tell you where I was… She said it would be okay…"

"Your mom got called out on an emergency client call," Dad replies, letting me go. "Home visit —Mrs. Baker. You remember her?"

I sigh, shaking my head at my first recollection of her. "I still have nightmares about her oatmeal cookies," I say, shuddering.

"That rash couldn't have been comfortable," he puts in. He turns slightly, noticing something out of place, and sees the 1984 yearbook has been left open. "Mom did happen to mention your win," he says, crossing the room and peeking at what I'd been looking at. "Getting ideas for a follow-up papers?"

"Who's Edward Cullen?" I ask before I can stop myself.

My father turns rather sharply to look at me. "What?"

"Edward Cullen—it says you're best friends."

"It?" he demands.

"The yearbook," I reply, crossing the room after him and picking it up. "See? Right here," I say, holding the book open for him.

My father grabs the book and slams it shut. "It's nothing you need to concern yourself with," he replies tightly. "Go upstairs and take a shower. We're expected at the Hale's for dinner in two hours."

"Dad, please," I reply, crossing my arms.

"Bells, it's nothing, really," he replies. "Now, please. You have to go and get ready. Royce will be there tonight."

I check my watch—it's close to five now, so I know I couldn't have been out for very long, but the thought of seeing Royce made me want to vomit, however, I knew I had to play ball that night with my future in-laws, for Emmett's sake. "Sure, Dad," I say, not really wanting to see Rosalie again so soon, but couldn't think of how to get out of it.

I make my way out of the study and back upstairs, heading into my bedroom and shutting my door behind me. I walk to my wardrobe and select an understated black dress which shows off my shoulders and comes to just above my knee. I hang up the dress outside my wardrobe and make my way to my en suite bathroom, just as I hear Jasper's motorcycle pulling up the driveway outside. I shut and lock the door behind me, flicking on the light and fan as I go, and proceed to open the shower door and turn it on. I find myself panicking as I strip off, crossing my fingers in a moment of panic that direct contact with the stream of warm water wouldn't send me back in time again. Going back in time was one thing—going back in time naked was a whole different matter. There was no way in hell I wanted my parents to see me naked under any circumstances whatsoever.

I get into the shower when I know then that if I don't, I won't have time to blow-dry my hair afterwards, let alone mentally prepare for that evening. However, mental preparation was pretty overrated, wasn't it, especially after today… Thankfully, the warm water didn't send me anywhere, and I remain inside the shower, washing my hair and body, plus shaving my under my arms and along my legs, as I wanted to make a good impression.

Of course, there was the notion that Royce—Rosalie's younger brother and Alice's older brother—would likely be there made the whole thing more complicated. Royce Hale, Jr., considered a prodigy at just eighteen-years-old, was a college freshman at University of Washington, and interned alongside Rosalie at the law firm. He also just so happened to be my ex-boyfriend—a boyfriend I'd had since the eighth grade and had broken up with over Christmas when I'd seen him flirting with resident queen bee Maria Martinez, who had been Jasper's steady girlfriend for almost two years.

Ever since our breakup—not mutual in his eyes since I'd been the one to throw punch in his face and ruin his new suit—I'd barely spoken a word to Royce. It wasn't altogether easy not to do so; since Emmett had proposed to Rosalie several months before our breakup, Royce and I had been paired on everything. Royce was a groomsman and I was now a bridesmaid, and he and I had likely been paired to walk up the aisle together; we had also been selected to dance together after the first dance and the father/daughter and mother/son dance.

I had tried to explain to Rosalie that, due to my breakup with Royce, such a thing would be inappropriate—Jasper had even told me over the weekend that he didn't mind dancing with me since he was Best Man. However, my concerns over my comfort had fallen on deaf ears—I think Rosalie was watching some _Desperate Housewives _marathon at the time, and conveniently hadn't heard my thoughts. The very fact that my older brother's fiancée was so committed to reality T.V. made me sick, and Jasper and I had communicated to one another more than once that only if Rosalie somehow managed to get an attitude adjustment would she make a far better partner for Emmett.

I step out of the shower, grabbing my towel and drying myself quickly and efficiently as I make sure my hair-dryer is plugged in properly. Grabbing my comb, I manage to distract myself with the hum of the electric piece, and its warmth soothes me and my upcoming evening with the Hale family. Once my hair cascades in waves down my back, I straighten my towel and return to my bedroom, where I fetch a matching bra and panty set from my chest of drawers, and clip and pull both into place. The dress goes on over my head without disturbing my hair, and I step into a pair of heels before returning to the bathroom. I hastily brush my teeth and put on a bit of blush, mascara, lipstick, and eyeshadow before returning to my room and fetching my black clutch bag and slipping my phone into it. I walk out of my bedroom then, spotting Jasper in the hallway, his simple evening suit a vision as he smiles at me, his hair wet and slicked back.

"Where did you take off to this afternoon?" he asks casually.

"Never you mind, little brother," I reply in a clipped tone, cutting in front of him and walking down the staircase.

We meet Mom and Dad in the foyer, and Dad permits me to drive myself to the Hale house, about ten minutes away by car. Jasper jumps at the opportunity and gets into my car as well, and I roll my eyes, listening to my parents as they tell us to go on ahead. I watch as they go into the wine cellar to bring the Hale's a bottle of their favorite merlot wine before driving there themselves. I pull out of the garage and around the roundabout and out of the cul-de-sac, doing my best to keep quiet and avoid all of Jasper's questions.

"Rumor has it that that snobby Alice is transferring from the School of the Arts and into the standard high school," Jasper says quietly.

"Maybe you'll have a new friend to play with," I reply. "And she's not snobby, Jasper. She's just very intelligent and quiet."

"Quiet?" he snorted. "Please. She's always jumping around, dancing…"

"Really? Sounds like, for a so-called snob, you've been eyeing her pretty good…"

"And Royce? He's been eyeing you since the breakup…"

I slammed on my breaks and pulled off to the side of the road, turning to him and fixing him with a glare. "Look, buster, if you can't be nice, you're _walking_ to the Hale's tonight _and _catching a ride home with Mom and Dad afterwards, assuming that they are even willing to give you a ride."

Jasper throws up his hands. "Jeez, I'm sorry. What's your problem?" He hesitates for a moment, and then a look of compassion replaces his earlier expression. "Are you worried about seeing Royce tonight?"

I shrug. "I don't know… Maybe."

"At least after this wedding is over and done with, you won't have to see him on the regular anymore," Jasper says quietly.

I smile tightly. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," he replies.

I start my car up again, and this time we continue to drive for the next seven and a half minutes in virtual silence. We pull up to the beautiful Hale home in the upscale gated community of Fern Hill Road. Royce Hale, Sr. and Lillian Hale promptly open the door and step outside, all smiles, with Rosalie and Emmett, Royce Jr., and Alice Hale bringing up the rear. I park in my typical spot and exit my vehicle, with Jasper circling and pulling me completely to my feet, whereupon we walk arm in arm up to the stone steps of the impressive Tudor home. We greet each of the Hales in turn, and nod to Emmett, making small pleasantries as I attempt not to make direct eye contact with Royce.

"Where's your mother, Bella dear?" Lillian asks me.

"Mom had a last-minute call, but they'll be along shortly," I replied.

"They're going to pick something up on the way," Jasper explained, not wanting to give the whole bottle of wine thing away.

"Of course," Royce Sr. said, nodding. "Well, please come inside," he says with an affectionate smile to us both. "Cecilia is laying out bread and cheese now." He approaches the two of us then, breaking us apart and putting a kind arm around each of our shoulders and guiding us to the front door. "Jasper, perhaps you could speak to Alice about her transfer to your high school."

Jasper forced a smile. "Of course, sir," he replied, crossing to Alice, who had just turned sixteen a few months ago. "What do you want to know?" he asks.

Royce Sr. smiles in exultation at the exchange and turns back to me. "Come on now, Bella," he says, and walks straight towards Royce Jr. and joins our hands, almost as if we were the ones getting married. "You two lovebirds have much to discuss, I think," he says as Rosalie laughs uproariously as she pulls Emmett inside after her, and Royce Sr. takes Lillian's arm in a far gentler manner and follows them.

"So… How have you been, Bella?" Royce asks, taking my hand tentatively in his as we walk inside together.

"Fine, thank you," I reply. "And you?"

"Fine," he says.

The sumptuous foyer that I became accustomed to at the age of thirteen never ceases to amaze me; Lillian, as the CEO of Forks Architects, had every halfway decent designer in town on bended knee. She had inherited the business from her late father and, since bringing in women from all over the country—and a select few from outside it—her moderately-successful business was, quite literally in a few months' time, booming. Rumor had it she had stolen one of Vera Wang's underappreciated apprentices.

The staircase—which curved upwards to the second floor of the house—was on a far grander scale than ours was, and their kitchen looked like something on the cover of a Better Homes & Gardens catalogue. Come to think of it, every room in their house resembled something out of a fashion magazine. I'd seen the likes of Oprah, Michelle Obama, Martha Stewart, and Ellen DeGeneres, to name a few, at many a party in the Hale household, and it hardly phased me anymore.

We head into the living room, where Cecilia, the Hale housekeeper, is setting up hors d'oeuvres for everyone, which include freshly-baked bread, expensive cheese, and pear sparkling juice. I remembered many a gathering where I forced the offending liquid down my throat, grinning and bearing it—all of it. I'd never liked pears or their juice, for that matter, and the very notion that I would have to force myself to drink some wasn't altogether pleasant. However, I took the offered champagne flute—with a monogramed 'H' in a frilly font emblazoned on the front which had reportedly been in the family for years—and sipped at it, attempting to distract myself with whatever it was Royce was prattling on about.

Royce draws me to the balcony, which overlooks the courtyard, the pool and pool house, and the orchards behind the house to the base of the cliff, where the Hale property ends. I can see the lights of Forks below, and the water shimmering in the sunset behind it. I grip the sandstone balcony before me and find myself annoyed with Royce's words, for I know he will try to justify his actions at Christmas.

"Listen, me and Maria—it was never going to happen."

I sigh. "Give me a little credit here, Royce," I mutter, swallowing some more of the terrible-tasting juice. "I'm not completely stupid."

Royce peers over at me then, and proceeds to mull over my words very briefly in his mind. "I know—it was one of the reasons that attracted me to you in the first place, Bella. Give _me_ a little credit here."

"Can't do it," I reply, taking another sip of the pear-filled drink. "You broke my heart—that's the only credit you get."

Royce reaches through the darkness, managing to take ahold of my hand in that grip of his that could only be described as demanding. "But we were so good together—I know you know that's the truth, Bella," he tells me softly, releasing my hand and twirling a stray hair of mine around his finger, before sending a gust of hot breath onto my neck. "We'd been together since we were thirteen—we were together almost five years."

I shake my head at him. "The only reason you want me back—or _think _you want me back—is because it's obvious that Maria wouldn't give it to you," I reply, snatching my neck away from him in a moment of disgust. "I knew us hooking up on the night of my sixteenth birthday was a total mistake, and I was right."

"Please," Royce puts in, his voice snide as he takes a swig of cider. "We were hooking up at fifteen and you know it."

"We didn't do it regularly until we were sixteen," I shoot back, through my teeth, so as not to disturb the Hale's and my brothers from behind us. "Unless you have something you want to tell me, which would warrant me getting a lawyer," I threaten him.

Royce blanches white immediately. "What are you accusing me of?" he demands, his voice barely above a whisper.

"You and Rosalie are interns at your father's law firm," I reply, in the same tone of voice. "I think you know to what I'm referring."

"I don't appreciate your insinuations," Royce tells me.

I place my champagne flute upon the balcony and turn away from him, walking down the side staircase and down to where the pool area was. I needed to think, without Royce's voice droning on in my ear, attempting to dissuade me from bringing charges against him. Truthfully, the only thing he could be accused of was flirting with Jasper's girlfriend—oh, and manipulation.

Every holiday, we had to somehow arrange to have it at the Hale estate. It irked me that we _always _had to be together and to find similar interests. Royce was the darling of water polo and standard polo and I had to learn the rules and play them and support him in each and every endeavor he placed himself in—and not just sports. I can't tell you how many times I was forced to sit through _The Ring_—the opera, not the god-awful wannabe slasher movie.

"We're not finished with our conversation," Royce says, his feet in his expensive patent leather dress shoes hurriedly following me down the stairs—a spoilt child who always got what he wanted wasn't getting it this time, and it infuriated him to the core. "I would much appreciate a reply from you, Bella."

"What do you want me to say here, Royce?" I demand, turning around. "I told you as much during your little Christmas party when Maria got drunk and you attempted to take advantage of her—it's over."

"Bella—"

I held up my hand. "It should have been over a long time ago. I fell out of love with you over a year ago, and Christmas was the perfect way to end everything between us. I've returned everything at my place that's yours, and I never left anything of value here to demand back—keep it. Keep it all, keep everything—every memento, every program, every gift—I don't want any of it, and I certainly don't want you. Now, leave me alone," I reply, turning back around and moving to walk away.

Royce reaches out then—I manage to hear the swoop of his arms making direct contact with the air as he suddenly lunges towards me. He makes a grab for me, squeezing my skin for a temporary moment just to hurt me, before he pushes me with all his might into the deep end of the Hale family pool. The deep end was over twelve feet; I loved swimming as much as the next person, but six feet was all I could ever appreciate—no ocean for me, thank you.

My scream cut through the night air then as I plunged deeper and deeper to the blackness that was the bottom of the pool. My lungs automatically filled with water as my screams were cut off by direct contact with the wet substance around me and I felt my eyes shut in a moment of pure, unadulterated fright. I felt my body going limp then, and I knew that this was it—I was permitting myself to give up fully in this moment. It was when, a moment later—a moment after I felt an unexpected _whoosh_—that I felt strong, capable hands on me, and I was immediately dragged to the surface.

Instantly, when I was flung upwards, onto hard, dry land, and after I predictably sputtered for an unspecified amount of time, did I find my eyes ached at the notion of light. "You sure have a sick sense of humor!" I shouted then, shaking my head, water particles dripping from my head as I shuddered at the unexpected coldness that suddenly overtook my senses. "Throw me in the pool and then save me life! Nice try," I mutter, getting to my feet and attempting to walk away. "Not happening—ever."

"What's not happening, ever?" asked the voice of my apparent savior, full of confusion at my lack of gratitude.

Turning at the sound of the voice—and ignoring the goose bumps that quickly found themselves manifesting on every available surface of my body—I felt my eyes widen. "Edward," I said, the shock in my voice apparent. "Right… 1980's. Cool, cool," I muttered.

"Why do you say it like that?" Edward asks.

I find myself forcing my jaw closed as I get a good look at him—while his muscles are pronounced, they are not burgeoning, like Royce's always were. They are more realistic, leading me to believe that Edward takes care of himself, but never pushes himself too hard. His bathing suit hugs him _everywhere_ perfectly, coming to the middle of his perfect calves.

"Bella?" he asks.

I blink. "Huh?" I ask, my face flushing. "Sorry. What?"

"Why do you say the 1980's, like they're a commodity?" he wants to know, and seems genuinely curious in my thoughts.

I run a hand through my wet hair, rolling my shoulders. "There are just some things you wouldn't understand," I reply.

"Try to make me understand," he replies. "Please—I want to understand this. I mean, you pretty much just disappeared earlier, and, suffice it to say that Renee was in shock for a good twenty minutes, if not more. I don't understand everything, but I think I could keep up."

"My mom was upset?!" I demand before I can stop myself. "She's hardly ever upset—she's usually so calm…"

"Your mom?!" Edward demands, a look of horror crossing his face. "Well, you fell pretty hard earlier, and now you almost drowned…"

I sighed. "I told you that you wouldn't—"

"Okay, be serious with me, Bella," he says, stepping forward and taking ahold of my wet shoulders, and I find myself stiffening at his touch. "Who are you?"

I turn towards the pool then, grappling with my fate. "Edward…"

"Tell me," Edward says—forcefully, not unkindly. "Please."

I lock my eyes with his, and I sense something shifting within me then. Why wasn't he still friends with my father? I found my mind was awash with questions and I needed to find out, and I wouldn't rest until I did so.

I needed to find out positively everything.

"Bella!" Edward shouted, desperation in his tone.

I turn back to him. "Edward…" I say again.

"Tell me..." He begs. "Please."

I shake my head. "Edward…"

"Please," he whispers.

He is staring deeply into my eyes, and I know then that, if I would have let him, he would have kissed me, and I wanted him to. However, we were from two different worlds—literally—and I couldn't mess everything up. Not like this, not like this…

I turn back to the pool then, utterly at a loss for what to do; something had to be done, and I told myself this as I looked at the ripples, just on the surface of the water. I needed answers, and I needed them now. If my father wouldn't tell me, then I would find out without his assistance, although it would've proved beneficial.

Finally, I give Edward a final look, and whisper, "I'm sorry," before I yank away from him and throw myself back into the depths of the water.


	3. Red Herring

Chapter Three: Red Herring

The _whoosh_ comes, and I find I am growing used to the sensation that they bring, as well as the dizziness that lingers for several moments afterwards. I surface, back in the Hale family pool, and spot Royce standing there, openmouthed, as well as my mother and father, brothers, and the Hale family. There are stairs leading out of the deep end of the pool, and I climb them moving past everyone, in an effort to get out of there, and quickly. Royce moves first, grabbing ahold of my arm and holding me back, his face white with fright.

"I was so shocked when you fell in!" he shouts.

I yank my hand back from his. "Nice try," I reply. "You know as well as I do that the pools have security footage. You're lucky I don't have you arrested for assault," I say, annoyance dripping from every fiber of my being as I make my way out of there and towards the pool house, where the towels are kept. After drying myself off, I slip out the back door and around the house, making a beeline for my car and getting in quickly. Pulling out my phone, I quickly dial a number and wait, pulling out of the Hale property and driving down the street.

"Go for Jessica," comes the answer.

"Jessica! Thank god," I say, relief filling my voice. "I need a favor."

She sighs. "All right, fine," she mutters. "The guys are having a night out and Angela is stuck in her self-imposed weekly study. What can I do for you?" she asks me.

"Where are your parents tonight?" I ask.

"At their annual benefit dinner at Forks Bar & Grille," she replies, "and they won't be back until close to midnight. Why?"

"And Eric and Seth?" I want to know.

"Eric took Seth to our grandparents' so he can go out with some friends tonight," Jessica replies, slightly annoyed. "Home alone."

I am about two blocks away from our street. "Does your dad still leave his spare key to the paper lying around?" I ask.

It had been a shock for everyone in town when Jessica's father, Lawrence, had inherited the _Forks Forum_ from his uncle, back in middle school. However, Lawrence had breathed new life into the paper, even launching the online website when every media outlet had declared newspapers to be both harmful to the environment and obsolete. It had been a shock to me that Mr. Volturi hadn't given the grand prize of publication in the paper to Jessica, but maybe it had to do with her inability to figure out the definition of rations.

"Of course—in the study," Jessica replies. "Why?"

"We're going on a little trip," I say, pulling up.

"What…?" Jessica asks, confused.

I honk my horn and see her pull back the curtains of her bedroom upstairs, and give her a small wave, knowing we had to be quick. "Get the key and get down here—hurry!" I shout. "Hey, and grab one of your parents' high school yearbooks!"

"Which year?" she asks, heading downstairs.

"1984," I reply, "senior year."

Jessica says goodbye and about two minutes later, emerges from the house, locking the front door behind her. She dashes down the walk, running towards my car and hopping into the passenger seat, perplexed at this apparent staged kidnapping and looting. "What exactly do we need all this for?" she asks me.

I sigh, knowing that I had to tell someone before I went crazy. "You're going to think I'm completely insane…"

Jessica waves my statement away. "Don't worry—I've thought that for years. Go on," she tells me with a smile as I drive down the street.

"Nice," I mutter as we drive downtown, towards the headquarters of the _Forks Forum_. The brick building is just down the street from Swan's Smiles, and I must pass it every day after school as I drive down to work. "Listen," I say quietly, gripping onto my steering wheel, "I don't want you to freak out or anything…"

"Noted," Jessica replies, albeit cautiously.

I pull into the parking lot of the paper, slipping into a visitor's parking space and shutting off my car completely. I lean back against the seat, looking at the darkened windows of the newspaper building across the way, and bite my lip, wondering how on earth I was going to explain something as supernatural as this. "I time traveled," I reply, peeking over at Jessica in the darkness, attempting to gauge her reaction.

She raises her eyebrows ever so slightly, but otherwise makes no other facial movements to indicate her shock. "To the 1980's?" she guesses.

I nod. "Yeah. And now I need to go into the hall of records…"

"Why?" she asks, curious.

"Because the yearbook says that my dad is best friends with this guy—Edward—and when I asked him about it, he refused to talk to me. I think he either left or was thrown in jail or did something terrible—I don't know."

"Maybe he joined a cult… You checked Facebook?" Jessica asks.

I nod. "Of course—first thing. They're not friends and none of the ones I found looks like him or has the necessary credentials."

Jessica's eyebrows knit together at that as she studies my face. "You met him. You met him, didn't you?"

I nod. "Yeah. Yeah, he saved me both times…"

"Both times…?"

"I've gone back twice—today," I tell her. "Once when I was copying my essay with Volturi, and just now when Royce pushed me in his pool."

"Okay, he's officially more psychotic than I ever imagined," Jessica replies, throwing herself back against my seat, and I know she is swearing revenge on him. "And what in the hell do you mean, 'He saved you'? What did you do?"

I bite my lip. "Well, the first time, I may have fallen down from the sky," I say quietly, knowing full well how crazy it sounded.

"May have f…?!" Jessica demands, looking at me like I'm completely and totally insane, but, nevertheless, continues questioning me, for it was pretty thrilling as it was. "And the second time? How did he save you then?"

"I was in a pool somewhere—I don't know where. And the first time, I ended up at the high school, for some reason… You know how weird everyone looked back then?"

"Yeah, of course—do you know how many old newspapers with photos I've had to sort through over the years?!" Jessica says impatiently. She turns and opens her car door, and I rush to follow her, gripping the borrowed yearbook in my hand. "If you were a total stranger," she announces as we walk through the dark and abandoned parking lot, "I would say you were totally crazy and never talk to you again. But, like it or not, you're my best friend," she says, more quietly this time as she takes out the key and unlocks the door. "My dad would kill me for doing this," she goes on as she flicks on the lights as we step inside, "but you only live once." She stands to the side, peeking over at me as I hold on tight to the yearbook as if it is a lifeline. "Where do you want to start?" she asks.

I peek at the spine of the copy of her parents' yearbook again, before flipping to the front on a hunch, and find nothing, other than the school thanking that years' football team, and the copyright information, that was somehow mandatory in that situation, and roll my eyes. "No dedication," I say.

"What?" Jessica asks, peeking over my shoulder.

"Whenever someone dies during the school year," I tell her patiently, "they usually have some information about the death somewhere in the yearbook. 'God rest So-and-So' or something like that. And there's officially nothing here," I say, taking the pages and flipping through the entirety of the yearbook.

"So?" comes Jessica's question.

"So, I say we check the local obituaries—from July 1984 until April 2014," I say, giving her a pained expression. "I know it's a long-shot, but usually hometowns say something if someone like _this_ died," I say quietly, nodding at the yearbook. "I mean, who knows? Maybe he helped discover Facebook or something…"

Jessica laughs at my joke. "You know perfectly well who the real discoverers of Facebook were, Bella," she tells me.

"Just messing with you," I reply, as I walk over to some of the old files.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Checking the obituaries?" I ask, turning back to her.

Jessica laughs, putting an arm around my shoulders and gently steering me towards the office section, full of desktop computers. "We're digitizing pretty much everything, silly," she tells me with a smile. "We're slowly adding things like this to the online database—going back every decade to get all the important information on the web."

"Fascinating," I reply.

"It is, isn't it?" she asks, logging us in to two of the desktops. "Here—you take the 1980's and 1990's, I'll take the 2000's and 2010's. Deal?"

I didn't complain that I'd been given most of the work—this was, after all, my project, and Jessica was helping me, where she really didn't have to. We at first didn't notice the preliminary research settings, so we were merely scrolling year by year, taking forever, when Jessica finally corrected our progress. I typed in Cullen in every database I could, and nothing came up—and Jessica wasn't getting anywhere either. Finally, we tried _Edward_ in the search instead of just Cullen, and that seemed to do the trick, thankfully.

Various awards he'd won with my dad for the various clubs they'd be a part of in high school seemed to be the highlights of his youth. However, once I hit the 1990's, and Jessica the 2000's and the 2010's, we found no information about him, and I was suddenly gripped with fear. I knew he was dead before I even found the online obituaries database, and it was then that the date stuck out to me—June 22, 1984. It was just a week after he, my parents, Jessica's parents, Principal Matthews, and a slew of others had graduated high school.

"How did he…?" Jessica couldn't bring herself to say it.

I clear my throat, blinking back the tears from my eyes. "Suicide," I reply, slumping back against the computer chair. "He killed himself."

"Did he leave a note?" Jessica asks.

I shake my head. "The investigation never managed to turn one up or track one down," I say quickly, my throat sounding like it was full of lead. I am just staring at the photograph they used of him—his senior picture—a true snapshot in time of how handsome and good-hearted he truly was in his lifetime. "Where's the bathroom?" I manage to get out.

"Straight ahead—to the left," Jessica tells me.

I give a nod, getting to my feet and walking past the records—the physical ones—and head towards the door which says WOMEN'S stamped upon it. Suddenly, as I open the door, my mind clicks—water and light. Certain forms of water and light sent me back in time, and maybe these faucets held the key to that. However, I had to be either distracted enough to let it happen, or surrender myself to it completely—the traveling itself. I hear the door swinging shut behind me, and I find I cannot think, yet I know I must do it.

Stepping forward, I reach out to the faucet of the sink, and the stream of water comes alive instantly, just inches from my fingertips. I reach out, and its coolness bathes my fingers momentarily, before I hear wind whistling in my ears and I know it is truly happening. I am catapulted from that bathroom in the spring of 2014 and sent back thirty years to when my parents were my age. I land in the darkness, on some cool, slightly damp grass, my head throbbing and ears ringing, but I am otherwise unhurt.

Getting shakily to my feet, I manage to make out my shadow in what's left of the fading sunlight—frizzy hair, skin-tight clothes. Since I'd gone back willingly, perhaps I'd been rewarded with the style and fashion of the day. Turning around, I saw a street sign that read Forks Court, and I remembered when my grandparents living on that street when I was a little girl. Suddenly, my mind clicked—1042 Forks Court was my maternal grandparents' address, and I had inexplicably landed in their front yard—what luck!

I shifted my shoulder—instead of my backpack, was an 80's rendition of something like it hung from my shoulders in its place. I stepped onto the curved path that led to the front door, and crossed my fingers that my mother would be home. I knocked on the door three times, and heard strong footsteps on the other side. The door opened then, and I was bathed in breathtaking yellow light, and was inexplicably making direct eye contact with none other than my grandfather, and yet I knew I had to keep my cool.

"Mr. Higginbotham," I managed to say.

He blinked. "Do I know you, miss?" he asked.

I smiled. "Not really, no, sir," I said quickly. "I'm a friend of your daughter Renee's—we go to school together. I just transferred."

He smiled warmly. "What's your name then?" he asked.

"Isabella," I said quickly, for he had never been fond of my nickname. "My name is Isabella Swain, sir," I said, coming up with a new surname quickly. "Renee and I take calculus together and we'd planned to do some homework tonight."

"Oh, of course," my grandfather replies, stepping back. "Please come in, Isabella, please," he says, the double use of his word 'please' touching me. "Marie, we have a guest."

My grandmother comes out of the kitchen, drying a dish from dinner on a checkered hand towel and smiles at the two of us. "Who do we have here, John?" she asks my grandfather. "Hello, there, my dear. I'm Marie Higginbotham."

"It's such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Higginbotham," I reply, taking her offered hand and shaking it. I'm Isabella Swain—I go to school with Renee. We have calculus together."

"Wonderful to meet you, dear," my grandmother says warmly. "Her room is just upstairs—first door on your right. Why don't you head up there and get settled in? I'll bring up some cookies in a short while, once they're baked."

I immediately smile, the notion of me having some of my grandmother's cookies is so exciting for me that I am forced to contain myself. "Thank you, Mrs. Higginbotham, that sounds wonderful," I reply. I turn and move towards the staircase, walking up and going to the first door on the right as directed. Biting my lip, and after making sure that neither of my grandparents are following me, I knock on my mother's bedroom door.

"Come in!" my mother sings from behind the door.

Quickly, I open the door and charge in, shutting the door quickly behind me. I watch as my mother's eyes widen and she's about to scream, but I dash over to her and cover her lips with my hand. "Please, I'm literally begging you—just listen to me for a minute," I say, and coat my tone with urgency. "Can you do that much?"

Mutely, she nods.

I sigh, wondering where to begin with this—my teenaged mother. "I'll answer anything you want, but only after you agree to the fact that my name is Isabella Swain, that my parents are wealthy and out of town for a while, and that you've invited me to stay over here with you for a few days. Okay? I'll tell you anything you want," I say, knowing my mother was never one for complete extortion.

Renee nods. "I promise," she replies.

I take my hand away completely. "Thank you."

Renee motions to her bed, and I sit across from her. "So… You are from the future, then?" she wants to know.

I nod. "Yeah—thirty years."

Renee looks shocked and shakes her head briefly before getting back to her not-so-heated interrogation of me. "Do you know me in the future?"

I nod again. "Very well."

Her brows knit together at that, and I tuck a hair behind my ear. Immediately, she reaches out and catches my hand, moving it, to the freckles that are just below my ear itself. A pair of freckles, which my mother had once called a 'vampire's bite' were positioned directly underneath my left earlobe. "Wait…" Renee picks up a mirror on her bedside table and notices the two freckles underneath her left ear. Her eyes lock with mine—that shade blue I'd never forget, while my own brown eyes and hair came from my father, and her pale brown which neither of her biological children inherited. "Be honest with me… Are you my daughter?"

I never break my gaze from hers. "Yeah," I reply.

She drops her grip on me, shaking her head. "I need other things—other than physical resemblances," she tells me.

"Your birthday is August 21, 1965," I reply without missing a beat, and she looks surprised at that. "You made your way into the world at three a.m., and your mother had been in labor for twelve hours, but refused to have a C-section. Your weight at birth was six pounds eleven ounces, and your birth length was eighteen and a half inches long. Also, you were born at St. Christopher's Hospital…"

Renee gets to her feet, slightly annoyed with the information. "Any information that you can get other than a birth certificate…"

I catch a glance at her right knee then as she gets up off the bed. Instantly, my mind clicks. "I know how you got that," I say, pointing at it, and she stops walking. "You skinned your knee when you were three-and-a-half-years-old," I say.

Renee sighs. "_Everyone_ skins their knee as a kid," she replies.

"It was your bike," I say, and Renee stops dead in her tracks. "Your neighbor, Peter, had his training wheels off already. You didn't want Peter showing you up, or so you initially believed, and made your parents take off your bike training wheels. You quickly lost control—you didn't know how to stop," I say, as I watch her mulling over the information in her mind. "You fell to the ground—knees first—and skidded a bit on your way down. It was a superficial cut on your left leg, but you landed on a broken beer bottle on your right leg."

"How did you…?" Renee asks.

"The bottle was brown," I say, and her eyes widened at that. "It was Coors Light—you always said you always…"

"…remembered because of the red, blue, and golden stamp on the label," the two of us say at the same time.

Renee shook her head. "Okay. I believe you."

"There's one other thing," I say.

"What?" she asks.

"Do you have that job in the main office? Or was that junior year…?"

"No, no… It's now," she tells me.

"How close are you with the secretaries and the principal?" I ask.

She leans back against her vanity table. "Good terms… Why?"

"Think you can get me into the high school?" I ask.

She nods. "Done." She looks me over then, shaking her head. "I'm sorry—no offense—but who dressed you?"

I shrug. "Nobody. Why?"

She laughs at that. "Okay… Because you seriously need a halfway decent 80's makeover," she tells me.

I flash her a smile. "Bring it on."

Renee peers at my teeth. "Wow… Nice teeth. How'd they get that way?"

I shake my head at her. "You'll see," I reply.

. . .

Renee explained to her mother that my "parents" were out of town and, as such, would need a place to stay for the night. Surprisingly, her parents didn't mind in the slightest, and seemed altogether on board with the whole thing. Renee's queen-sized bed could easily hold both of us, yet I explained that I would have to return to the present before coming back the following morning, and she seemed to understand my reasoning.

She then went on to question me further—was she a strict parent in the future? Who was my father, for that matter? Was it really Charlie Swan, or was I just exaggerating that she was going to marry her high school sweetheart? I just played it off—after all, I couldn't give everything away here, could I? Could I?

I went into her en suite bathroom and turned on the faucet; Renee hovered in the doorway, intent on seeing me disappear. I listened to her words at returning at seven-thirty sharp—that way, she would have time to make me 1980's appropriate for high school. I flashed her a temporary smile, extending my fingers towards the stream of water, and wet them. The wind blew and whistled through my ears, before I went—_whoosh!_—back to the present. I came with a thud back into the ladies' room of the _Forks Forum_, and Jessica—now in the bathroom—let out a shout and threw her arms around me.

"Half an hour!" she cried out, not letting me go. "I very nearly called the police! I almost dialed the number…"

"Well, thank you for somehow managing to restrain yourself in this situation," I say, stepping back and checking my phone, mysteriously unbroken from all my travels. "Ah—eight-thirty. Just have enough time to run home, get these clothes off, and finish my homework. I have to be up by seven-fifteen."

"Of course—we have school tomorrow," Jessica replies, walking after me. "Why wouldn't you be up at that time?"

I sigh, turning around and facing her, biting my lip. "Because I'm not going to school tomorrow, Jessica. Well… I mean, I am, but…"

"You're going back again… Aren't you?" she asks.

I nod. "Yeah."

"Did you see him again? Edward?"

I shake my head, picking up the yearbook. "No. No, I saw my mom."

"Bella…"

"I know, I know. I landed in my grandparents' old yard and managed to charm them into letting me stay the night—of course, I won't—but I did somehow manage to get Renee to get me a spot in the high school."

"What do you plan on doing with all this information, anyway?" Jessica asks me, catching my arm as I move to leave. "What are you really accomplishing here?"

"Jessica, you know as well as I do that I've never done anything remotely reckless in my entire life!" I cry out.

"Exactly! Because reckless and Bella Swan don't mix!" Jessica cried out, more than a little exasperated.

"No, it's not that…"

"Oh, please," Jessica says as she logs off the computers while I wait for her. "It's not like you had a sheltered upbringing or something…"

I roll my eyes as I switch off the lights. "No, I had a boyfriend who sheltered me, and I kicked him to the curb as soon as I realized it was legal to do so," I reply, shoving the door to the paper open.

"Bella! Listen to yourself!" Jessica hissed as we walked out into the parking lot and trudge towards my car. "Now you're acting like dumping your boyfriend is illegal! What's going on with you?"

"I have no idea, Jess,," I reply, running my hands along the high-gloss paint job. "All I know is… Well, I don't know…"

Jessica catches my facial hesitance, even in the darkness. "Wait..."

"What?"

"You…you don't…?"

I opened my car door slowly. "I don't…what?" I ask her, getting in after she does and tossing her the yearbook.

"You don't have a thing for Edward Cullen, do you?"

I groan and shake my head, sticking the key into the ignition, grinning ever so slightly when my car roars to life. "Don't be ridiculous—I've only known the guy for less than a day…"

"But he saved your life—twice," Jessica reminded me as we pulled out of the parking lot of the paper. "And he's from the 1980's—double sexy as hell."

"You've seen too many John Hughes movies," I shoot back at her as we drive down the main road, towards Calawah Way, where we both live.

"Oh, please."

"I'm serious," I mutter.

"Somehow, I think I missed the one where the female protagonist time travels," Jessica says, sparring now.

I shake my head at her. "You're terrible."

"Well," she says, straightening in her seat. "Maybe your spontaneous traveling really means something here."

"Oh, yeah?" I ask, turning and driving up the hill. "What?"

"Maybe it means that you need to save him."

I blink, peeking over at her, and fighting to keep my eyes on the road. "What exactly are you saying, Jessica Stanley?"

"I'm saying that maybe the reason Edward Cullen died could have a little something to do with you."

"Jessica…"

"No, I'm serious. He goes through with graduation, and your traveling through time—I don't know—shifts something within him."

"Sci-fi, much?" I ask.

"Just listen here, Swan," Jessica says, a little impatiently. "What if you're supposed to go back in time to try and save him?"

I shake my head. "Too crazy."

"Why not? He _is_ your type…"

"Jessica…"

"What? All those smart clubs… Plus, he a gentleman who's compassionate enough to save the life of a perfect stranger. And, what's this?" she asks, opening the yearbook after skimming through the index. "Is this Edward on a pet adoption day funded by the school before snobby PTA parents made a complaint about exotic animals on a school campus?"

I peer over at the yearbook photo. "I hardly think a puppy is exotic…"

"Who cares?!" Jessica whines, practically drooling over him herself. "It's a picture of a hot dude holding a puppy. How could you not want this?"

I brake in front of her house. "Because I've known him for all of ten minutes," I reply. "Plus, we're from two different worlds, Edward and me. The 1980's and now. I mean, besides, he's dead, and I'm not living in a fairy tale. Not anymore."

"Now he's dead," Jessica says, unbuckling her seatbelt. "But back then he isn't. Why don't you sleep on it?"

"Sleep on what? There's nothing to sleep on…"

"The idea of saving his life," Jessica replies patiently. She opens my passenger door and smiles at me. "Think about it—returning the favor."

I shake my head. "Favor? What favor?"

"Save his life, and maybe, just maybe, he'll save yours," she says, slamming the door behind her and running through the darkness and up the walk of her house.


End file.
